Half A Week Before the Winter
by BeanietheCat
Summary: Olivia Caraway's life is not what it was supposed to be. Her sister was not supposed to be born with a debilitating disability. Her mother wasn't supposed to be an addict. Wrapped up in the underground bookmaking scene in 1920's era NYC, Olivia soon finds herself in a battle of wills against the Peaky Blinders' former Chief Accountant- a dangerous man with nothing to lose.
1. Chapter 1: In the Beginning

Disclaimer: I do not own Peaky Blinders.

New York City

1922

"You sure you want to put all your eggs in that basket?" the young woman took a drag on her cigarette, raising an eyebrow at the man who stood before her. She looked him over and observed the grunge that was evident on his clothing and the dirt smeared on his face. Clearly he was a working man who, more than likely, was going behind the missus back in order to place a bet with his days wages.

"I'm sure, ma'am. I got a good friend over in Hell's Kitchen who says that Jack Britton ain't got nothin' to lose in this fight. In fact, you'd be fucking stupid if you put your money on Mickey Walker."

"You'd be fucking stupid to waste an entire day's pay on a boxing match," the young woman said, letting out a small laugh, "but who am I to tell you what to do?" She let out a puff of smoke and stuck the cigarette between her teeth, reaching out for the wad of cash the man had grasped in his hand.

"You think the odds are better for Walker?" the man asked, retreating his hand slightly.

"Look, mister, I already told you what I think the odds are. The choice is yours though. But don't come cryin' when you need to pay up and you ain't got the money. You know the rules…and the consequences," the young woman's eyes glittered with malice and a touch of excitement.

"I'm stickin' with Britton then," the man finally said, handing over his wad of cash. The woman counted it quickly, cigarette still smoking between her lips, and made a note in her book.

"Name?" she asked, not looking up.

"Moore, Albert Moore," the man replied, twisting his hands together nervously.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Moore," the young woman smiled, sticking out her hand. Moore hesitantly shook it. "We collect after the event if you lose, and if you win, you can expect to be paid in full no later than tomorrow at midday. Next!"

* * *

"Last call, ladies and gents! Place your bets, then be on your way!" a man dressed sharply in a three-piece suit pocketed his gold watch, casting a wary glance around the room where lines of men, and the occasional woman, stood behind the desks of bookmakers. Handfuls of cash were being passed from hand to hand, while names were taken.

Once the last of the betters were gone and the doors were locked for the evening, a collective sigh could be heard throughout the room. The man in the three-piece suit came barreling out of his office, cigar in hand.

"Excellent work today! Excellent work, all of you!" he cried. "There is nothing I love more than the sight of eager betters coming in and working with you fine people!" The man gestured around, before taking out his lighter and igniting the end of the fat cigar.

"Mr. Wilde, you haven't told us who you're betting on tonight!" shouted one of the bookies from his table.

The man turned towards him and smiled broadly, "Now, now, if I've told you once, I've told you all a million times! I don't bet!" With that, the room burst into a roar of laughter and sounds of disbelief, quieting immediately when Mr. Wilde raised his cigar-filled hand.

"Remember, if you want to go to the match tonight, feel free to do so, however, we are not conducting business outside of the gambling house, are we all clear?"

"Yes, sir!" came shouts from all around the room.

"We collect tonight after the match! If you aren't attending, stay close to the gambling house so you can find out who won and check your books. All names of losers need to go to the collectors as soon as possible so they can conduct their business. Other than that, you are free to go!"

As the room began to fill out, the young woman gathering her things when she was approached by a coworker—a rather overzealous young man who exuded confidence, even when he should not.

"Hey, hey Olivia!" he called. The young woman, Olivia, looked up and refrained from rolling her eyes—not him again. "You, uh, you going to the match tonight?"

"No, I'm not, Johnny, I think I've told you that about five fucking times though," she flipped her cigarette case open and pulled out a thin, white stick, rolling it between her fingers.

"Come on, Olivia, you need to get out a little. It ain't good for a woman to be cooped up all day and night. I can show you a good time, you know, take good care of you."

Olivia was about to give him a tongue lashing that would prevent him from asking her on any outings for the next several months, but she was interrupted by Mr. Wilde's presence suddenly lingering between them.

"Mr. Ashby, always good to see you," he acknowledged Johnny, nodding his head. "Miss Caraway, would I be able to speak with you for a moment?"

Johnny nodded, sidling off and out of the doors into the streets of the city. Olivia held her bag tight against herself and nodded, "Of course, Mr. Wilde, what can I do for you?"

"Come to my office, darling," he said, gesturing towards the large oak door which read "Arthur Wilde, Chief Proprietor."

Inside Mr. Wilde's office, Olivia was slightly taken back by the amount of grandeur with which he had decorated the place. A large, mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, intricate carvings running up and down the sides. Behind the desk sat a plush, velvet chair, and on the corner of the desk was a crystal decanter, filled with a brown liquid that was not legal to possess.

"You have expensive taste, sir," she murmured, more to herself, but Mr. Wilde did not miss a thing.

"When you own the best, you can have the best," he said, leaning back into his chair. "You've been with us for some…months now, how are you liking it here?"

"It's a job, sir," Olivia said. "The pay is decent and mom and I have been able to keep our flat in Turtle Bay, which is good for my sister. You know, consistency is good for them when they're young."

"Please, have a seat," Mr. Wilde said, gesturing to a chair. It was as if he hadn't heard anything she had just said.

"Sir, if you don't mind, I really do need to get home. My sister is there, my mom would've just left for work and she needs someone to be there to watch her."

"Your sister can wait a few minutes. I have a business proposition for you." Mr. Wilde poured himself a glass of the brown liquid and swirled it around in his glass. "You have proven to be quite the addition to our little family here, Ms. Caraway. You're smart, you can add and subtract numbers without using paper and pencil, and you can convince the betters to bet against their favor."

Olivia cast a glance at the clock, it was already 5:15—she really needed to get going. Her foot began to bounce up and down impatiently.

"I'm opening up a new gambling house the East Village, and we are going to need some bookmakers like yourself to help it get started."

"A new one, sir? How are you going to travel from Times Square to the East Village every day? That's a rather far commute."

"There will be a different proprietor there. You see, I've made a rather good deal with a man in Birmingham, England, regarding the export and import of dry gin to…you know…supply the speakeasies that are popping up in the city. And in return, I agreed to help his nephew set up shop here with a gambling house. To get his feet on the ground, so to speak." Mr. Wilde was examining his class closely, swirling the brown liquid continuously before he downed it with one gulp.

"Ms. Caraway, I'm willing to give you a fifty cent raise per head if you are able to embark on this endeavor with me. That's no small amount, my dear."

Olivia did the math in her head. It was true. The earnings would outweigh the possible travel expenses with cabs, and she could use the money to help get ahead on the apartment. The only downfall was having to deal with some strange foreigner who probably had no idea how American life and business worked. Still, how hard could it be to train him?

"Can I have a day to think about it?" Olivia asked, slowly.

"You don't have enough time, he arrives tomorrow on the _Monroe._ But I suppose if you need one day, I could have him post up here and watch how we do business before he gets thrown to the wolves." Mr. Wilde grinned and sat up abruptly. "Ms. Caraway, I think you'll do wonderfully."

"Sir, if I may, what's this man's name?"

"Michael Gray."


	2. Chapter 2: Life in Harlem

Disclaimer: I do not own Peaky Blinders!

A/N: Thank you to all who have favorited and followed so far! I appreciate the continued support! Please enjoy Chapter 2 and as always, any feedback is greatly appreciated!

CAUTION: Spoilers from Season 4 ahead. Proceed with caution.

* * *

Chapter 2: Life in Harlem

Olivia walked at a brisk pace through the darkened streets of the city. It was close to seven o'clock at night, the bustle of people around her engaging in evening frivolity and conversation brought comfort to her daily commute. Even so, her mind was tossing and turning as it reexamined and weighed the pros and cons of Mr. Wilde's proposition. While she didn't necessarily enjoy the thought of getting in league with gangsters from any nation, she had to stop and think of the hypocrisy of that sentiment alone. After all, bookmaking wasn't exactly the most kosher job in the city for anyone, let alone a woman.

Olivia knew Mr. Wilde worked for someone else—someone who called the shots and ran the business transactions, but she didn't know who exactly that was. Deduction would say it probably was a gangster, one of the bigger ones that had taken over some of the neighborhoods in Manhattan—maybe the Eastman Gang, or possibly the Five Points Gang. If she was already involved in gang activity, what could it hurt to be involved a little more? After all, she had been doing this for months now and no harm had threatened her or her family.

As Olivia passed through the various neighborhoods in the Upper West Side, she couldn't help but notice the progressive dilapidation of the atmosphere as she traversed from Morningside Heights into Harlem. Rowhomes sat on top of each other and within them, families of at least three generations struggling to make do with the little space they had. Olivia continued past several homes, giving polite greetings to several of the residents who were sitting on the front steps chatting with each other.

"Good evening, 'Livia!" one of the older women on the porch steps chimed.

Olivia gave a small, tired smile and nodded her head politely, "Good evening, Mrs. Danielson," she replied.

Mrs. Danielson got up from the steps and wiped at the front of her apron with hands the color of dark chocolate, "Now don't you go runnin' off anywhere, young lady, I'll be right back," she said, going inside the house.

Olivia glanced over at the gentleman sitting on the steps next to Mrs. Danielson's home, puffing away at his pipe, his eyes wandering in their sockets, unseeing. "Evenin', Mr. Harrison," she said.

"Hello there, Olivia," Mr. Harrison said, a bright smile breaking on his dark face. His teeth glinted contrastingly white against his skin tone. Mr. Harrison reached out his hand and Olivia placed her own in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"What's Mrs. Danielson up to now?" she asked. Mr. Harrison let out a deep, rich laugh—one that resounded with joy, something that was hard to come by in Harlem these days.

"Only God knows what that ol' lady is up to," he chuckled, "although my nose is tellin' me that she's been bakin' some o' that famous bread o' hers. My eyes may be damned, but my nose ain't never wrong when it comes to that bread o' hers."

"How's Cyrus doing?" Olivia asked. "I haven't seen him around much anymore."

"Oh, you know how he is," Mr. Harrison said, leaning back on the steps, "he comes and goes as he pleases. He's a stubborn ass sometimes, but he's got a good heart. He's tryin' to get a music gig going down near Midtown; he comes an' visits sometimes, let's me know how things are goin'."

Olivia was about to respond when Mrs. Danielson came bustling out of her house holding a casserole dish covered by a gray dishcloth. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted out of the house behind her as she hurried down the steps.

"Here you are, my dear," Mrs. Danielson said, "freshly baked this afternoon."

"Mrs. Danielson, you spoil us," Olivia murmured, lifting the dishcloth cover and examining the fat, dark brown loaf that sat beneath. "Thank you; this looks wonderful."

"No trouble at all," Mrs. Danielson said, waving a hand and taking a seat back down on the porch steps. "How's that sister of yours doing?"

"About the same," Olivia said, "she's been getting better about feeding herself, but it's…well, it's still coming along."

"She'll get there," Mr. Harrison chimed in, to which Mrs. Danielson eagerly nodded. "Keep bein' patient with her; she'll get there."

"Speaking of my sister, I should get going," Olivia said, "my boss kept me a little later tonight and I need to get her dinner and situated for bed. Thank you again for the bread, Mrs. Danielson. Mr. Harrison, always a pleasure, sir."

About two houses down, Olivia unlocked the front door to her own home where she was greeted instantly by darkness and an overwhelmingly pungent smell of human excrement. Kicking off her shoes, Olivia entered onto the first-floor landing which was comprised of the kitchen, living room, and dining room. Flipping the switch to illuminate the lone lightbulb, a sparse, yellowy light flooded into the area. Seated at the dining room table, her right hand clasped tightly around her own neck, sat Olivia's younger sister, Ruth.

"What the hell?" Olivia cried out, rushing over to her. Taking her right hand into her own, Olivia gently unclasped her sister's hand, and began lightly scratching the palm. "Why are you by yourself?" Olivia searched her sister's face, knowing that she would never get an answer from her. Ruth sat, her blue eyes staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, rocking back and forth in the chair, intermittently squeezing Olivia's hand. The putrid scent was coming from Ruth.

"Olivia, is that you?" a voice called from the living room. "Oh, I'm so glad you're home."

"Mom? W-what? Why are you here? You're supposed to be at work." Olivia looked around the room for something to occupy her sister's right hand so it would not return to her neck. Her eyes settled on a small rubber ball lying on the kitchen counter.

Once she was sure Ruth was occupied with the ball, Olivia walked into the living room where she found her mother lying sprawled on the couch, her dress up above her waist, her hair lying in a tousled mess on a burgundy pillow. On the small table next to the couch sat a small amber bottle. Olivia didn't need to read the label to know what it was.

"What the fuck are you still doing here?" Olivia whispered dangerously. "Where is Mrs. Hobbes?"

Olivia could see her mother's eyes were blurry and unfocused, she had clearly just woken from a long, drug induced sleep. "I just couldn't bring myself to go to work today. My nerves were too bad, and the doctor said I shouldn't work if my nerves are bad. I told Mrs. Hobbes I would be fine with Ruth today on my own."

"You have got to be fucking kidding! You didn't go to work? You just didn't go?"

"I told you, my nerves were bad. I took some of my medicine and you know how it gets to me," Olivia's mother sat up unsteadily, wobbling slightly as she situated herself.

"How long have you been passed out?" Olivia demanded. "How long have you been out?"

"I—I don't know, maybe a couple of hours?"

"Fucking hell," Olivia muttered, leaving the room, running a hand through her auburn hair, her fingers getting caught in some tangles that had formed throughout the day. She returned to where Ruth sat, contentedly squeezing the rubber ball in her right hand and using her left hand to rub the grain on the wood table.

"Come on," Olivia said to her sister, putting her hand under the girl's underarm. "We need to get you cleaned up. Ready? One, two, three." On three, Olivia hoisted the girl up out of the chair. Ruth was unsteady on her feet but soon gained her balance as Olivia led her up the staircase and into the small bathroom.

Olivia pulled down the waist of Ruth's skirt, exposing the cloth diaper haphazardly pinned to her thin waist. A thousand thoughts flew through Olivia's mind as she quickly cleaned and changed Ruth. Primarily, she was concerned with how long her sister had been allowed to sit in her own filth while their mother dozed in a drug-induced dream world. Judging by the splotchy rashes, Olivia estimated at least several hours.

Leading Ruth back to the kitchen, Olivia sat her sister back at the kitchen table, grabbing the rubber ball from the counter to occupy her hands so they wouldn't automatically go to her throat.

"She was a fucking mess," Olivia said. She knew her mother was listening even if she was half stoned. "That's a fucking sin and you know it."

"Don't curse around your sister, love," their mother said dreamily from the living room. "I was getting to her—you never give me a chance, you know."

"Bullshit."

Olivia opened the cupboards, cringing at their emptiness. When was the last time her mother had gone grocery shopping? Finally, Olivia's blue eyes rested on a lone can of soup pushed towards the back of the cupboard. That would have to do…although, with the addition of Mrs. Danielson's homemade bread, maybe the dinner wouldn't be so pathetic.

When the soup was done, Olivia spooned it into three bowls and then sliced three pieces of the homemade bread. There was no butter in the house, so they would have to eat it plain. As she entered the living room to give the food to her mother, she noticed the older woman was unconscious yet again, a soft snore escaping her lips. Olivia did not need to look to see that the morphine bottle was emptier than it had been when she first got home.

Sitting the bowl of soup in front of Ruth, Olivia took the spoon and ladled some food on it, blowing on it softly to cool it off. Once she determined it was safe enough to not scald Ruth's mouth, she handed the spoon over. Ruth grabbed the spoon quickly, spilling some of the soup on the table before it reached her mouth. She swallowed and then dropped the spoon on the table.

"No, you have to give it to me, not drop it," Olivia murmured, picking up the spoon and putting it in her sister's hand again to model what she wanted her to do. Ruth resisted a little, but upon seeing the spoon be filled with more soup, she became a little more cooperative. The routine continued until the bowl was empty. Glancing up at the clock, Olivia noted that she would soon have to be back at the gambling house soon to let the collectors know who they needed to visit following the match.

Olivia threw both bowls in the sink and then hoisted Ruth to her feet to get her into bed. She made a mental note to visit Mrs. Hobbes first thing in the morning to review terms of their arrangement as far as Ruth was concerned. Never was her sister supposed to be alone with their mother.

Grabbing a brush from the cabinet, Olivia ran it through Ruth's dark blonde waves, trying to be as gentle as possible as her sister squirmed and moved, desperate to get away. Brushing Ruth's teeth was even more of a challenge. Eventually, Olivia managed to get Ruth in bed and once that had been accomplished, she allowed herself a moment to breathe.

* * *

The gambling den was in an uproar. Mickey Walker had defeated Jack Britton in what the _Times_ were calling that match up of the century, earning the title of World Welterweight Champion. Olivia struggled to get through the crowd that had flooded into the streets from Madison Square Gardens. Pushing forcefully on the double doors to the gambling house, Olivia was greeted by a similar hubbub taking place inside. All around her bookmakers were moving quickly around the room, gathering their logs and shouting names to the burly collectors who stood ominously by the wayside.

In the middle of the chaos stood Mr. Wilde, looking surprisingly calm and collected. He reveled in these moments—the scent of money and the prospect of further earnings spurring his positivity and urgency.

"Jones! You and your boys take Sutton Place and Turtle Bay. White—Midtown and Hell's Kitchen," Mr. Wilde shouted instructions to the collectors. Upon hearing their placement, bookmakers from around the room who had dealings primarily with residents in their neighborhood began handing over names and addresses. Grabbing her book, Olivia joined the group gathered around Mr. White—an enormous giant with arms as thick as tree trunks and a temper as bad as the Devil's.

Glancing down in her book, she noticed that she only had two names who had bet incorrectly: Moore and Hemingway. Both had only put the minimum down to make the bet as well, meaning that they owed in full what they bet. She silently hoped they were smart enough to have the cash on hand—if not, well, Mr. White wasn't someone you wanted to make angry in the middle of the night.

"Ah! Miss Caraway!" Mr. Wilde called over the commotion in the room. Olivia popped her head up from her book, and bit back a groan of frustration.

"I-I'll be right there, Mr. Wilde!" she called back, scribbling down the two names on a scrap piece of paper and handing it over to White. The huge man glared down at her as he snatched the paper out of her hand and eyed it suspiciously.

"Don't fuck it up," she said, narrowing her eyes at the man. She hated using White as a collector; there were a few times in which he came back shorthanded with no explanation other than she had not done the calculations correctly because she was a woman. Olivia knew better than that though, she knew he was a fucking thief.

Before she knew it, Mr. Wilde was next to her, grinning from ear to ear, his forehead shiny with sweat. "What a grand night it has been!" he exclaimed, the scent of whisky strong on his breath. Mr. Wilde drunkenly threw his arm around Olivia's shoulders, causing her to buckle slightly under the sudden weight.

"I know, sir, no one was expecting Walker to come out on top!" she said, forcing excitement. Olivia really didn't care one way or the other as long as she profited somehow, but tonight was particularly disappointing seeing as only two of her betters were losers.

"Listen, love, have you given any thought to my offer?" Mr. Wilde murmured, pressing his bristly, brown mustache into Olivia's hair.

"I have," Olivia said, squirming slightly away from her boss. "You're sure it's fifty cents extra per head?"

"Of course, I'm sure!" Mr. Wilde roared, drawing eyes from around the room.

Olivia looked at him for a long moment taking in the slicked back hair, the three-piece suit, the silver pocket watch that hung on a chain in his vest pocket. Mr. Wilde probably never knew what it was like to be hungry or to stay up at night wondering how the bills were to be paid. And now he expected her to babysit another spoiled, rich, gangster brat? The money was enticing. It was the only thing that was enticing since it was a necessity to survive.

"Okay, I'll do it," Olivia said. "But I want all of that in writing!"

"Excellent, Miss Caraway! Simply excellent!"

* * *

The cold ocean air stung against his cheeks. Michael Gray turned up the collar of his coat, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets to preserve some warmth in them. What he wouldn't do for a cigarette right about now. New York was the last place on earth he wanted to be, although Michael couldn't blame anyone but himself. After all, it was his own wrongdoing that sentenced him to this exile from the Shelby Company Limited. He had no one to blame but himself. As the boat neared the port, Michael noticed Lady Liberty standing tall in the middle of the harbor, a symbol to the world of freedom and independence. Michael found it funny that a symbol of liberty for so many was a symbol of shame for himself.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" a voice chimed next to Michael. He looked over at the woman who had joined him on the deck. "I'm so glad we are finally here! America, Michael!" The woman slipped her hand through Michael's arm and rested her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly. He couldn't remember what the woman's name was but she had been a good fuck, so he let her be, at least for now.

"Land of the fucking free," Michael murmured.


End file.
